


Face to Face

by OmgReally



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Big Mando Hands, Cockpit Sex, Cockwarming, Creampie, Din Djarin Deserves Better, Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, Din Djarin has magic fingers, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Shameless Smut, Size Kink, Smut, Topping from the Bottom, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Sex, mostly just smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29581641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmgReally/pseuds/OmgReally
Summary: Din Djarin gets a haircut with a happy ending.That's it, that's theshameless excuse for smutplot.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Character(s), Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 188





	Face to Face

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Set in Stone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28170075) by [OmgReally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmgReally/pseuds/OmgReally). 



> This loosely ties into the fic [Set in Stone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28170075/chapters/69025713) but can be read 100% standalone. Substitute your favourite OC or you for Kit, and please enjoy this shameless, shameless filth!

“It’s getting long.”

The Mandalorian shifts in her arms. He’s lying half across her body, his weight on her chest a comfort in the pitch blackness of the cabin. 

He often sleeps like this, his head pillowed on her breasts, and the first time it took the girl he named Kit'la a little while to figure out why: He’s listening to the sound of her heartbeat. Something he could never get close to with the Beskar helm in the way.

It warms her, expands the space between her lungs reserved only for him. She knows the stutter of her breath, the skip in her pulse will not go unnoticed with his ear pressed flush to her skin, but he never comments on it. He savors the sacred darkness, the stolen moments in the first minutes after waking, when neither of them have to move or acknowledge anything besides the other.

She strokes the back of his head, threading her fingers through the unruly locks of hair. Hair, the true color of which she still doesn’t know. She’s only ever seen him in half-shadows, in moments where touch was more important than sight - and sight, she’s long since learned how to live without.

But his hair _is_ getting long.

“What?” he asks, his unfiltered voice husky, mellowed by the aftereffects of sleep and - other things. Kit feels the roughness of his stubble and the contrasting softness of his lips brush her skin as he speaks. “What is?”

“Your hair. It’s going to start growing out the sides of your helmet soon.”

He snorts, an inelegant, _human_ sound that makes her smile. He props his chin on her sternum, peering at her in the dark, and she imagines his eyes - are they dark? Or perhaps a pale ice blue? It doesn’t bother her that she doesn’t know, may never know; after all, she counts herself lucky to see mere shadows.

“I’ll cut it before it gets to that point.”

“You do that yourself?” she asks, mock-horrified. His fingers creep up her ribs, tracing the scars there, but she ignores them for now. “With what?” She’s pretty sure she’s never seen scissors on the _Guardian_ , except maybe in the medkit.

“Vibroblade,” Din replies, without a hint of irony. Kit shakes her head back and forth and _tsks_ him.

An idea occurs to her, one she voices before she can think better of it. “Would you...would you let me do it for you?”

She feels him tense, imperceptibly, through the sudden stillness in his fingers and the pause in his breath. Then he shrugs, the bare line of his shoulders shifting under her arm.

“Sure. Okay.”

She’s surprised he agrees so readily - after all, it’s not as if he goes out of his way to show her his face. Twice in shadow, in a closed room when emotions ran high and they were both too concerned with bodies rather than faces - but not in the softer, slower moments between. Those are few, and usually spent like this, locked away as if in secret. Not hiding, exactly, but she knows Din is more comfortable like this, and Force knows he’s earned the right to rest.

“Okay,” she echoes, stroking the back of his neck, his curls. She’s not sure, but she thinks she can feel him smile against her skin.

\---

Din sits stiffly in the pilot’s seat, his cloak wrapped around his shoulders like a towel, facing away from her.

His hair is brown. Kit’la isn’t sure why seeing that realization, and that alone, makes her breath catch and her face warm. It’s just _hair_ , and she’s touched it plenty of times before, felt the thick, wavy locks as she’s carded them between her fingers, warm and clumped with sweat. He’s washed it now, thankfully, and it’s still a little damp, covering his ears and escaping the top of his cowl, reaching to the bottom of his neck. She combs any tangles out with her fingers, and he shivers as her nails rub just lightly across his scalp.

She tries not to look at his face. She knows he’s not entirely comfortable with that yet, and she doesn’t want to push him. Besides, _this_ is more than enough to warm her dreams during any nights without him for a long time to come.

“This okay?” she asks as she lifts the scissors, testing their sharpness with her thumb. They’re small, and it’s going to be a mission to get through his hair - it’s thick - but she thinks she’ll manage. And Din seems to trust her.

That realization, more than anything else, threatens to make her hands tremble and her eyes cloud with moisture. She steadies herself with her free hand on the back of his shoulder as he nods.

“It’s fine. Go on.”

The first few snips send clumps of hair drifting to the deck. To Kit’s surprise, Din relaxes after that, as if the first cut was the worst, the one to get over. He’s probably never had anyone do this for him before, she realizes. 

She feels humbled by this, such a simple act, and she has to swallow around the lump in her throat as she keeps going with small, measured clips.

“This may not look the best,” she warns as she works. “These scissors aren’t suited for this.”

“It’s not as if anyone but you will get to see it,” Din tells her. And there it is again, the catch in her chest. “Keep going.”

Kit is careful around his ears, her fingertips brushing the outer shell as she guides the scissors around them, and when she feels Din shiver she experiences an echo of it down her spine. It’s not just nervousness prompting his reactions, she realizes, and she’s glad he’s facing away from her sly smile.

When she’s done with the back and sides and it looks _reasonably_ neat, she hesitates, dropping her hands to his shoulders. “Do you - d’you want me to do the front, too?”

There’s only the smallest of pauses before he says, “Yes.”

Drawing a deep breath, Kit’la steels herself before she steps around him. She tries to keep her focus fixed on his hair, really she does, but she can’t help it - her gaze drifts downward and meets a pair of deep, dark eyes, eyes shadowed by well-defined brows, brows that draw together in a slight frown over a strong, aquiline nose. A nose that she has felt nuzzled against her neck, her chest not too long ago. The thought makes her shiver.

Crow’s feet map tiny lines in the skin at the corner of his eyes, and his brow is etched with the echo of his frown. His beard is patchier than she expects - she swears that against her skin, it feels rougher and thicker than it looks - and is speckled with a hint of grey at the edges. His cheekbones are high, and muscle memory in her fingers remembers tracing the outline of his strong jaw in the dark. Translated to sight, he is unmistakable. He is her Mandalorian.

And he is beautiful.

“Does it look that bad?” he asks, and the brows raise a little. The quirk at the corner of his lips is subtle, but there; a smile. Kit’la finds herself releasing a breath she didn’t know she was holding and smiling back.

“What? Your hair, or your face?” she teases, resisting the urge to reach out and run her fingertips from his temple to his jaw. She doesn’t want to overstep. With her touch, at least.

Din shrugs. “Either.”

“No,” she says. “They’re both fine.” She draws another breath before she lifts the scissors to the mess of curls hanging over his forehead. He holds very still.

“Just ‘fine’?”

“Your hair is fine. Your face is...beautiful.” It slips out before she can stop it, and Kit swallows her nervousness, keeping her eyes on the scissors and continuing to snip away.

“Thank you,” Din says stiffly after a moment. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard that before.”

“Never?” He knows what she’s actually asking. He nods, and the scissors almost slip - she hisses a warning and stills his head with her free hand on his chin without thinking. To her surprise, Din _leans_ into the touch, and she can see his eyelids flutter briefly - he seems to crave it as much as he does in the more intimate moments. If not more.

“Never,” he confirms aloud, and the last curl falls. Kit lowers the scissors and looks at him. At his face, not just his hair. He meets her eyes without flinching, without glancing away, and it’s like touching an electrical circuit; his gaze earths in her body and lifts a shiver from her scalp to her toes.

“I’m finished,” she says, trying to clear the hoarseness from her voice and failing. Din nods, but he doesn’t take his eyes off her, not even when he reaches for his helmet. She experiences a flash of disappointment, of longing, one that is quickly tempered as she realizes he’s using the Beskar as a reflective surface to examine her handiwork. He tilts his head, the same way he does when he wears it, and she sees the corners of his lips twitch, his eyebrows lifting a little.

“Not bad,” he says simply. Approving. Kit beams with equal parts relief and pride. 

When he doesn’t put the helmet back on straight away, she hesitates - only for a moment, but it feels like an age before she sets the scissors aside and reaches out to card her fingers through his hair. She left enough length on top for it to hang over his forehead, but not in his eyes. It suits him, she thinks, but maybe she’s biased.

She brushes stray clippings from his hair, from his ears, from his cloak around his shoulders. Even without the armor he is broad, a pillar of muscle and tension beneath her hands. They drift down his temple, his cheek, and again she feels it - the way he angles himself into her touch, chasing the press of her fingertips.

“Thank you,” Din says - again, not something she expects. “For this.”

He’s not just talking about the haircut. Something small and soft inside her catches, warming her from her sternum to the pit of her stomach, and she reacts on instinct - leaning down to press her lips against his cheekbone. 

It is a touch that others might consider chaste, but for the Mandalorian, it is one of the most intimate. It’s something he’s never allowed himself, and it shows in the way he tenses, the soft puff of a surprised breath warm against her jaw.

“You’re welcome,” she murmurs into his cheek. He smells like soap and leather, metal and sparks, all heat and light and clarity. And he draws her in like a magnet.

There are those who think Beskar is cold, unfeeling, and that the Mandalorians who wear it are the same. But beneath the steel is a heart that burns brighter than the center of any star, threatening to consume her, and she goes gladly. She would do anything for him; she would burn herself up in his atmosphere, blaze out, bright and brief and eternal.

He knows it, he knows it in the way he responds to her touch, in the way he touches her. It’s in the reverent press of his fingers at her waist, the nudge of his nose against her cheek as he tilts his head, the brush of his lips over hers, soft and quick and blistering. She chases his lips and the buzz of his chuckle lifts hairs on the back of her neck; he wraps his hands around her wrists and draws her down, down into his lap, where her knees bracket his hips and she sinks into the encircling cradle of his arms without resistance.

“You’re so good to me, cyar’ika,” he whispers, and no filter or vocabulator could possibly replicate the effect his raw voice has on her - her reaction is physical, visceral, a coiling in her gut that pools heat in the pit of her stomach. One of his hands spreads wide at the small of her back, the other drifting up her side, pushing her shirt up her ribs, his thumb brushing the revealed skin as she arches for him. “My sweet Kit’la.”

“You should let me take care of you more often,” she says, fighting to keep the shake from her voice, wishing for a vocabulator of her own. Her hands seem small against the vastness of his shoulders, but Din gives into the gentle push regardless, leaning back into the chair. Only her toes brush the floor as she shifts her hips forward, and she feels him draw a breath as the cradle of her pelvis settles over his groin.

 _Kriff_ \- he’s half-hard already.

“I should,” he agrees, and she doesn’t miss the way he plants his boots against the deck and lifts up against her, just enough to feed the growing warmth between her legs with a friction she can grind against. “But then I’d have to return the favor.”

“I’m _not_ letting you cut my hair.” 

He chuckles into her neck, and Kit'la shivers at the warm burst of air and the sweep of his fingers back and forth over her ribs, underneath her shirt. “Not what I meant, cyare,” he murmurs, setting the edges of his teeth against her pulse, which she knows is stuttering and jumping in time with her heart.

She can’t see his face like this, but she can feel it, picture it in her mind’s eye as he sucks deep, bruising kisses into the side of her neck. Eyes closed, brows drawn tight, stubble rasping against the sensitive skin of her throat. 

Din never takes long to get possessive, to get grasping and greedy with his touches, like he’s afraid that _every_ time, this will be the _last_ time. Maybe he is. Maybe it is. Despite the few seconds of prescience she is privy to thanks to the Force, neither of them truly know what the future holds. Their only choice is to hold _now_ in both hands, to hold each other, as close and as tight as possible.

And the Mandalorian does. 

He has his hand in her pants before she even realizes what he’s doing, his fingers working through her curls and seeking her clitoris with devastating, pinpoint precision. She cries out at the sudden press of his fingertips against the sensitive bud of nerves, bucking into his hand; she can feel his feral grin of triumph against her jaw the instant before he drags his lips over her chin and kisses her.

Din is no less needy with his mouth than he is with his hands. He tolerates only a moment’s press of their lips before he parts his and his tongue presses into her mouth, wicked and urgent. He drinks in her moan, swallows it whole, licking sweeping strokes against her teeth and tongue with his own.

His fingers never stop moving, always on the edge of too rough but never quite crossing it, pulling the thread of her pleasure out taut and strumming the tension with each brush of calloused fingertips against her clit. The frission builds between her legs, and she can practically _feel_ the moisture gathering in her slit, already threatening to seep from between her aching folds.

Kit knows she could come so easily just from this, legs spread while his hand works in her pants, mouth overtaken by his, but the more he gives the more she wants to take. He is addictive, worse than spotchka or spice, and her head spins with every stolen touch.

“Din,” she gasps into a break in the kiss - and that’s _all_ she has to say. He withdraws his hand and she whimpers at the loss of contact, until she realizes he’s nudging her knees together to get her pants down over them, underwear too. 

She doesn’t even remember kicking her boots off, doesn’t register when Din pulls his shirt over his head. But suddenly she’s in his lap again, half-naked, pressing into him, hands swiping deliriously over his bared skin.

“Gar’ner,” he murmurs, tugging her shirt up to bare her breasts, and he’s not gentle but she doesn’t need him to be. She groans as he twists a nipple between his fingers, shudders when his free hand returns to her cunt, nearly combusts as he slides two digits home inside her, twisting and curling against her walls.

“Fuck,” Kit hisses, arching into his hand as he moves it, precise and rigorous. He’s priming her, she realizes, stretching her open in preparation for him, and her mouth floods with saliva and her belly with molten heat when his other hand leaves her breast to reach for the fastening of his pants.

So far, all her hands have done is paw hopelessly at his chest, his shoulders, distracted by the skill of his, but she forces herself to participate - she slides them down to interrupt his fumbling, although she’s not much more graceful as she yanks at his buttons and tugs the zipper down.

Din’s reaction is marked, though, when she frees his cock and curls her fingers around it; his unfiltered, stuttered groan against her cheek makes her shudder, her inner walls flexing around his fingers.

This time, when he pulls them from her, Kit doesn’t mind at all - especially not when he reaches up and slides his fingers into his mouth, sighing softly around them at the taste of her. It also allows her to shift her hips forward and open her thighs wide around his waist, her knees pressing into the sides of the chair as she slides over him. She uses her grip on the base of his cock to guide the blunt head against her weeping entrance, and they both groan in unison as she drags him once, twice, through her soaking folds.

But Din is too impatient, too eager, too ravenous to let her take her time. Suddenly his hands are on her hips and he’s dragging her down over him, stretching her open, and she gasps and arches as his cock breaches her and begins the slow, achingly powerful slide home.

She grabs his shoulders for support, the dull bite of her fingernails into the solidity of his skin dragging a grunt from his throat. His grip on her hips is just shy of bruising; perfect; a counterpoint to the languishing burn and stretch of his cock sliding through her.

Burying her fingers in his hair, Kit grasps for length that isn’t there any more, remembering belatedly what led them to this. She presses her mouth to his temple, breathing hard, and when her hips finally settle flush to his, she feels his hand at her nape of her neck, tugging her head back.

She closes her eyes on instinct, overwhelmed by how _full_ she is of his cock, of the feel of his skin, of his presence; she is as engulfed by him as he is of her in that moment.

“Cyare. Look at me _._ ” Din's usually calm baritone is huskier than normal, low and deep in its intensity. “ _Look at me._ ” His tone tugs at the deepest parts of her, so that her eyelids fly open without her conscious input, and she meets his gaze with a gasp that draws her out of herself.

His eyes are open, pupils blown so wide that the brown is almost eclipsed by black, and the _intensity_ there makes her clench from her stomach down through her cunt and thighs, curling her toes with its vehemence.

Din holds her there with the force of his gaze, with his fingers digging into her hips, for what feels like eternity, half a second or forever - she’s not sure. Then her hands lift, her fingertips hesitating a millimeter away before she touches his face - and it’s his turn to exhale sharply as she strokes his cheeks, his jaw.

“Din,” she whispers, and he throbs within her, but he’s no longer so impatient, so driven. He lets her linger there, her pelvis flush to his, his cock spearing so deep inside her she can feel him when she swallows. But nothing is so intense as the feeling that fills her as she strokes his face.

She explores his jaw gently, his chin, her thumbs tracing the tremble in his lips and up, across the broad sweep of the bridge of his nose. She travels his eyebrows, learning the planes and angles of him by touch, fighting to keep her eyes open, to commit every single pore and line and hair to memory. She has done this before, but never in the light. Never when she was allowed to _see_ him.

And now it is _her_ turn to whisper the word, “Mesh’la,” and the Mando’a from her lips makes him tense. Kit’la feels it beneath her, inside her, in the spasm of his fingers as they press marks into her flesh. She responds with a slow roll of her hips, the shift of his cock through her a reminder, a prompt: “I’m yours.”

Din growls, a sound from deep in his chest. He is done waiting, lingering. He pushes his feet down and lifts up into her, her toes leaving the deck entirely; she floats, impaled on his cock, the entire universe narrowed down to the exquisite fullness of him inside her. He does it again, and again, working the smooth, velvety thickness of his length through her cunt; she grips him with a flutter of her inner muscles and a gasp, and it’s as if she can feel every vein and ridge as he pushes into her.

Soon enough, he sets a punishing pace, and with no leverage and no points of contact with the floor or anything but his body, it’s all Kit can do to hang on. Her nails prick his shoulders again and the ferocity of his groan makes her dig in harder, and he thrusts and grinds up into her like he’s trying to bury himself with the intention of never pulling free. At this moment - at any moment - she would not complain.

The slow, sharp flame of sensation is already licking up her spine, gathering in the pit of her stomach, at the aching point of her clitoris as it is compressed by the wiry thatch of hair at the base of his groin with every collision of their hips. She could come at any time, she thinks, just let go and float away, ruined by this, by _him_ . But she wants to look at him while she does it, and she wants to see him fly apart underneath her, she wants to _see_ what he looks like when he comes.

It’s a mission for Kit to pull her head back and keep her eyes open, as with every jolt of his body into hers her scalp prickles and whimpering sounds are torn from her throat, but she manages when Din’s face swims into focus. He’s frowning again, this time in concentration, his brows drawn tight over the bridge of his nose, and his eyes are half-closed, moisture from sweat or tears glimmering with devastating gravity in his lashes as they brush his cheeks. He bites his lip against the quiver in them, and she’s not sure who is more overpowered by this - her or him.

“Din,” she gasps, “Look at me.” The echo of his earlier words prompts the lifting of his lids, and she gives in to a full-body shudder and the bow of her spine as they lock eyes again. He’s barely keeping it together, she can tell, and not just from the sounds from his mouth. He babbles brokenly, sounding almost drunk on it - on _her._

“Fff- _fuck_ , you’re so - so fucking _good_ \- “ Din kisses her, briefly, sloppily, unable to keep his lips and tongue moving cohesively, but it’s okay because it means she can frame her face with his hands and pull back to look at him again. “So soft, sss- so strong, cyare, _ugh_ , _shit_ \- I-”

She hushes him with her fingers on his lips, and he kisses them too, drawing the tip of her middle finger into his mouth and biting down lightly on the first knuckle at the same time as a particularly vicious lift of his pelvis strikes the swollen head of his cock into a place inside her that makes her see stars. She cries out, fighting the urge to slam her lids shut and arch into the impending fall of her orgasm, but instead she forces her eyes wide and tips her head forward and focuses on him. 

Only on him. Nothing else.

His hands guide the next few bruising thrusts, and her feet leave the floor entirely as he holds her up and _stares_ back at her with his mouth open - wordless, stunned, disbelieving; as if he can’t comprehend that this is happening to _him_ , that this _feels so fucking good_ and it’s _real_ and he has _allowed_ himself this small, bright spark of wonder in a universe that could care less about Din Djarin, the Mandalorian, and what he wants or needs. Kit wishes she could tell him he deserves this and _more_ , deserves everything she can give and even then it won’t be enough because he should have the world; no, the galaxy, the _universe_ and everything in it.

But all she can give is herself. And she does.

Kit'la palms his face and strokes his jaw and keeps her eyes locked to his, even as the blinding rise of pure, physical bliss overflows and floods through her with the inevitability of a dam breaking, a river bursting its banks. Her eyes threaten to close, her body wanting to concentrate only on the input of touch, but she curls her hand around Din’s wide, stubbled jaw and uses the touch to anchor her to him, gasping his name as she looks into the deep, devastating darkness of his eyes.

Din comes. With another one, two soul-demolishing thrusts, he holds himself up, buried to the hilt inside her, and even through the squeezing spasm of her inner muscles, she can _feel_ it as he swells and pumps cords of thick fluid into her. She spreads her thighs as far as they can go and arches her pelvis to take as much of it, as much of _him_ in as deep as she can, and he groans through it, shaking beneath her so hard the chair rocks with the force of it.

Finally, together, their eyes close, and they are still. The only sound in the cockpit is the combined heaving of their breath. Kit sags first, leaning in to rest her forehead against his shoulder, her hands descending the sweat-beaded, muscled flesh of his biceps, tracing scars both old and new. 

She thinks she could stay here forever with him inside her, panting against her cheek, spent and sated. Evidently, the Mandalorian feels the same, for he makes no effort to lift her up, to pull out of her. Instead his broad hands drift the length of her back, fingertips tracing her spine, and she shivers with a phantom twitch inside and out as the long digits tangle in her hair, keeping her anchored there with his hands and his body.

Eventually - she’s not sure how many minutes or seconds later - she manages to say something. It's not poetic, but it is true:

“You should let me cut your hair more often.”

Din laughs, a broken, half-swallowed chuckle. And when he speaks, he sounds utterly wrecked, little more than a buzz against her skin as he turns his face to mouth her neck. “Only if we do this every time.”

She pulls back to look at his face. Just once more, she tells herself. Just once.

“Din Djarin,” she says, and the combination of his name from her lips and the hungry way her eyes rove his face makes him feel infinite inside, “If we do this every time, you’re going to end up kriffing _bald_.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://omgreally.tumblr.com) please feel free to come enjoy the mando and pedro reblogs, yell at me or request something! or all of the above if you like!


End file.
